The weather has turned cold(ish) and the leaves have changed their colors. Autumn is here. It means cider doughnuts and beef stew and making things from scratch on Sunday afternoons. This past weekend I made ginger cookies (perfection!) and home-made ravioli.
I forget how amazingly annoying ravioli are until I am in the middle of making them. So much filling, so little pasta. Too much glue (egg) to close the petite pillows or not enough. By the end of the ordeal – believe me, it is an ordeal – I’m covered in flour, swearing like a sailor and just about ready to throw my ugly, pathetic and dismal excuses for ravioli into the trash. The only thing that stops me is the realization that my hours of torture would have been for naught.
As I stood in the kitchen Sunday afternoon vowing to never make ravioli again, a thought popped into my rather clouded brain. Maybe the reason I have such a hard time with these deceptive little buggers is because I don’t give the process enough time and attention. Maybe, to have a pretty, perfect ravioli you must romance it. Take your time with it. Learn about what it likes and doesn’t like. Does the dough prefer to be pinched or pressed?
This approach may make sense but I don’t have the time. I’m an instant gratification kind of girl. I don’t want to take time with my ravioli – I just want to have the ravioli. I figure things out all the time. My brain hurts because I spend so much time romancing the other things in my life – the nagging problem at work, the farmer down the street and the question of what to have for dinner. I take hours of my day pondering how to make things work and work well so I honestly don’t have the energy to romance pasta too.
I’ll leave that to someone else and next time I’ll make stuffed shells instead.